These Torturous Stars
by OfBloodandStarlight
Summary: When Emma's friend, Mary Margaret, decided it's in their best interest to get a new roommate, Emma wholeheartedly agrees, after all it'd really help them financially. But when Mary Margaret tells her their new housemate is a male, Emma's not so sure this is the best idea anymore. What she wasn't expecting though, was for him to walk into her life and turn it upside down. AU.


_**This is inspired in a poem I saw on Tumblr but I can't quite remember the name though, lol:)**_

* * *

I don't own Once Upon A Time.

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**1**. **If You Talk Enough Sense Then You'll Lose Your Mind**

* * *

_I'll use you as a focal point,_

_So I don't lose sight of what I want,_

_I've move further than I thought I could,_

_But I miss you more than I thought I would,_

* * *

"I don't think this is such a good idea, Mary Margaret." Emma says, her voice holds an edge of apprehension. She is more than hesitate to follow through with this roommate thing Mary Margaret suddenly had thrown upon them. Emma is sure that if it weren't because they are so tight on the money, she definitely would _not_ go along with this nonsense no more. Mary Margaret is just _not_ thinking this through.

"Oh, relax, Emma. It's gonna be fine, and we can't back out now anyways." Mary Margaret replies, absentmindedly as she continues on typing away in her phone. As though the identity of their soon to be (too soon, in Emma's opinion) roommate was the last of her concerns.

"How do you even know that!?" Emma almost hisses, her voice going one or two notes higher than normal. "For all we know he could be a thief, or a rapist or a… murder, yeah, a psychopathic… serial killer! Or just— a complete creep whom you invite into our house just like that!" She continues her passing after the outburst.

Mary Margaret giggles—she _actually_ giggles— at Emma's speech, she's laughing so hard she drops her phone onto the floor in her attempt at stopping her laugh. "Oh, my God!" She says breathlessly. After she has recovered a bit, she continues, "Emma, please, where the hell you even get these thoughts from? You see too many movies. I swear." She continues shaking her head until Emma is tempted to tell her to stop or she'll get a headache. "And who even says _'whom' _these days, anyway?" Mary Margaret asks in a quiet voice as in afterthought. "Besides, _thief_, you're not so bad, right?"

"Oh, shut up." Emma says, indignantly. "Why aren't you worried in the least? Is this your faith in humanity shining through? Because this _isn't_ the best of moments."

Emma goes to take a seat beside her; she wants to stop the nervous passing. The nervous hands shaking thing is another story altogether.

"I don't know what's so wrong with him being a guy. I mean you were ok with this until I told you it was a _he_. Honestly, Emma, how misandrist of you." Mary Margaret makes an indignant sound with a shake of the head.

"Oh, shut up! You _know_ that's not it." Emma says defensibly. She takes a deep breath and with a softer tone she adds, "You know it's not, I'm just so nervous. I'd be the same if it was a girl, to be honest. This is a stranger with whom we'll have to live with all of a sudden."

"It isn't a stranger, Emma." Mary Margaret says quietly, smiling at her sheepishly, "He is David's friend… Or, something. They have the whole bromance thing going on; David is like—_really_ invested on their platonic relationship." She adds in a hurry before Emma can question her.

"_What?_" Is all Emma manages to say, her voice is low.

"I'm sorry! But David practically _begged_ me. The truth is that we already had a roommate, her name is Belle, but then David wouldn't shut up about his friend and what a hard time he was having and how much he wished he could help him but his house was full and blah, blah…" Mary Margaret's face is flushed red scarlet and she sounds so apologetic Emma can't find it in herself to be mad at her for wanting to help her boyfriend's friend.

"Okay…" She says at length, "So, no serial killer?" Emma smiles despise herself. Saying it _now _does sounds a little dumb.

"No." Mary Margaret says with a snort. "He's more like David's true love, though Killian says it's only platonic."

Emma laughs along with her.

"So… Killian? Is he gay?" She asks curiously.

Mary Margaret is shaking her head before she can even finish the question. "No. He was in a relationship, actually. That's why he needs a new place now."

"Oh."

Mary Margaret hums in reply.

There's a knock on their door.

She looks at Mary Margaret nervously and neither of them make a move to stand and get the door. At the end is Mary Margaret who (sighing loudly, Emma scoffs at her) stands and after quickly arranging her dress, opens the door. "Hey, Killian!" She exclaims sweetly. "How are you?" She asks, her voice softens and, even though Mary Margaret probably doesn't even realize, she sounds like she is speaking to a wounded animal instead of a grown man.

"Hello, milady. Well… I'm all too glad is you I'll be living with, don't tell Dave but his housemates are a pain bloody in my arse!" Emma hears him reply, (she can't help but notices that he all but avoided answering the _actual_ question) his voice is rich with a British accent, it arises unbidden goose pimples through her body, (his voice is sin, Emma quickly decides, she doesn't like it and—_fuck_, she loves it.)

Mary Margaret must've had made a funny comment as a reply because the next thing she hears is his deep chuckle, it causes something deep in her insides to tremble.

_What the hell, Emma? You can't be attracted to a guy merely because his voice is nice! _A voice, that sounds a lot like hers—just much more upset—reminds her. The voice is right, _she_ is right… but then again, his voice is not _nice_. It sounds like sex, like glorious sex—and oh God, she has to stop, she absolutely _has_ to. She hasn't even seen him!

"…We'll help you, don't worry—but first! You have to meet your new roommate, my friend, Emma…"

And—

_There's no way this guy's real. _It's one of the last full sentences her brain conjures.

And, okay… She _should_ have seen that one coming. Because… This guy's face is just _offensive_, the only thing that comes to her mind when his eyes fall on hers is something along the lines of, 'Oh, wow,' and 'God, _why_'. His eyes are just… so _very_ blue. A shade of blue she just can't quite place. His hair is a deep shade of black but in his stubble there are small gleams of lighter hair, his eyelashes look tick, which only helps to accentuate the blue of his eyes. His lips are temptingly full.

And his body—and the things her mind comes up with concerning just what she could do to _that_ body— does not help matters, and is not only her body, but her heart, is also reacting to him. She has to put a stop to it before it even starts. She's not ready, she won't go there; she _can't_.

To Emma's credit she recovers pretty quickly and actually manages to not make herself overly obvious in her _appreciation_ of him.

It takes her by surprise that the look in his eye as he stares at her is one of utter amazement, too. It's only there for a second before he blinks, recovering quickly—just like she did—but she's seen it. And it was all she needed to know that there was no way, _no way_, she'll ever go there with him.

"I'm Killian Jones." He smiles at her, takes a few confident steps towards her and holds out his hand for her to take as a form of greeting_. Goddamn, even his name is sexy._

Emma reaches out without much thought, but the moment their hands touch, it moves her ground, the fact that the touch of his palm against hers alone feels this good… It scares her to her very core; she pulls away swiftly, and looks down to her hand as though it has betrayed her. It's still tingling.

"Hi." It's her clever reply. Her voices sounds a little breathless even to her own ears. Clearing her throat, she adds. "I'm Emma. Emma Swan."

Killian grins, a crooked kind of grin that doesn't fail to make her insides flutter. "Pleased to meet you Swan."

"Jones." His grin is inviting, so she smiles back, if even just for a moment.

They spend the next three hours helping Killian unload and unpack and arrange his stuff in his new room and all around _their _apartment, too, turns out the guy owned a bit more than Emma would have thought.

When he introduces them to 'Daisy', his little _hedgehog, _Emma ponders the possibility of him getting any more perfect, —insanely attractive, funny, witty, kind, adorable, a complete _dork_— the answer is, probably no.

* * *

Now, thinking back on it though, she'll be honest with herself and accept that, yeah, that was the moment she started.

A step at a time; a sure (albeit sometimes bumpy) path.

* * *

Their apartment has two bathrooms, one of which is in Mary Margaret's bedroom, the other one is in between Emma's and Killian's room. They end up sharing it. There's really not much option.

So, when one morning Emma stumbles upon Killian _singing_— more like humming since she can't quite hear his voice clearly— she doesn't pay him much attention, just smiles and shakes her head. He was one of the people that _sang_ in the shower apparently.

The second time it happens though, it catches her attention and holds it for longer, she's star struck, standing outside the bathroom, stunned at her own reaction to his singing, to _what_ he is singing and how the words affect her.

_"'__Cause every time we touch, I get this feeling / And every time we kiss, I swear I could fly / Can't you feel my heart beat fast, I want this to last / Need you by my side."_

She's rendered speechless at how beautiful the words sounds when coming from his mouth, how rich and lovely his voice is. How it makes _her_ feel, it sounds so much like the way she feels when she is with him.

_"'__Cause every time we touch, I feel the static."_

It goes on like this for longer than she'd like, he sings every damn time he takes a shower, every time he cooks, every time he cleans his room or every time he does his laundry. He sings _all_ the time. Mary Margaret loves it, often complements him and even requests songs from time to time. And he sings it, all of it, no matter how silly, no matter how girly, no matter how much Emma suffers.

She loves his voice, when he sings or when he speaks or even when he groans in annoyance or even when he snores—because, yes, mister perfect snores and _loudly_ and Emma is so annoyed with herself because she even like _that_ about him and, gosh what's wrong with her?—

And he is so funny and noble but also so insufferable because—because he flirts with everything that moves and doesn't he realize that it hurts her? (And why does it hurt her, she doesn't even want to think about it.) And it's even worse when he flirts with _her _because she knows that's just the way he _is _and he doesn't mean anything by it and—

(_And why can't it mean anything?_ She has started to forget.)

_"__You're the light, you're the night / you're the color of my blood / you're the cure, you're the pain / you're the only thing I wanna touch / never knew that it could mean so much / you're the fear, I don't care."_

And she has started to hate it when Mary Margaret requests songs like _these_. Like Emma needs any reminder of what could but won't be and—

—_fuck it_.

And she hates herself for feeling this way, because they're nothing, _nothing_, just two strangers living in the same house and that sometimes flirt and barely talk without it turning into some form of playful bickering. And she isn't supposed to feel this way, and her heart isn't supposed to clench inside of her chest like this, she isn't supposed to lose her breath every time their eyes meet, her skin isn't supposed to tingle when he accidentally touches her and—

Because they're nothing. They're _nothing_.

(She asks Mary Margaret to stop with the song requests.)

The next time she hears him, it's only a silent humming coming from the privacy of his room. She feels like complete shit every time.

* * *

She _likes_ him. She knew it since the first time their eyes met.

And she knows that she wasn't—isn't—supposed to. Not in this way, but she _does_, she likes _him_, God, _so much_. She likes him in this all consuming, bone aching, blood boiling, breath catching, kind of way.

(She _likes_ him. She doesn't want to.)

(But it's impossible not to.)

(She's petrified.)

* * *

_"__David says I should stay away, and I think the same thing. But you know me, Daisy, my heart never agrees with my head." _His voice is muffled by the door of his room.

Ah, another of his therapy sessions with _Daisy_. This man, honestly.

Emma guesses he has no idea she is home, because even though he _does _talk to Daisy, all the damn day actually, these 'deep talks' are only for when he thinks he is alone, in the confinements of his room, (although she has stumbled upon those too, once or twice… or thrice.)

_"__She is so beautiful, Daise,"_ He sighs deeply, _"I wish she wasn't, it'd probably make it easier for me. She's so stubborn and so bloody brilliant! She has this thing about her… I don't… I don't bloody know! I just feel this connection like— we understand each other better than most… like kindred spirits, perhaps? Is that too cheesy?" _He says hopelessly_. "Daisy?"_

Emma's heart clenches at the thought of him hurting over a woman, and then it hurts all over again because… _he's hurting over a woman._

She doesn't want to hear him anymore, but he continues because of course, he doesn't know she's here, eavesdropping shamelessly. Hurting._ "And when we touch… which doesn't happen that often, but still… I mean—"_

She can't—she can't hear any more of his rambling about this mysterious woman, who she hates already, by the way.

She walks back to the entrance door quickly, opens it and shuts it again loudly, for him to hear, for him to _shut up. _"I'm home! Mary Margaret, you here?" She adds for good measure.

And he just—_"Emma, love?" _and there he goes with his stupid endearments and loveliness and—ugh, he is just such an _idiot_, such a lovely idiot and she's so fucking _gone_.

(She _can't._)

"Uh, yeah, obviously! It's just you here?" She asks, and she's not—she's _not _aching to see him or anything, she is so _not_, it's not that, it's just—her feet move on their own and if—if she finds herself leaning against the threshold of his door (looking fondly at him on his back, limps spread widely with Daisy resting on his chest), well, it's only because she hates shouting across the apartment. (And because he's an idiot and she can't help herself as much as she tries.)

"No. Daisy is here, too, see?"He grins up at her, fingers going up and down Daisy's back unconsciously, soothingly. And she just can't _not _smile back because—well, it's obvious why.

"Yeah, I can see that. Hey, Daise." She says softly, touching Daisy's head delicately, (she has grown quite fond of the little thing and she can tell that so has Mary Margaret.)

"She says hi back." He says and she isn't even looking at him but she can practically hear the smirk in his face and she can't—won't—look at him because—because then she won't be able to look away and no, _no_, dangerous territory—_no_.

"You're such an idiot." She scoffs. Takes a step back.

He hums, "Oh, but you love it." And she takes another step back, tree.

(It's getting harder to convince herself into believing that she doesn't.)

She laughs. It's breathier than she'd like. But either he doesn't notice or he decides to humor her and not mention it.

"Do you want to order a pizza or something?" She asks him, and just like that it's settled. Pizza and Netflix for the rest of the evening and—and it's not—it does not make her feel all giddy and shit, to be spending the time with him, just him (and Daisy, of course), it does _not_, because she's not that girl anymore, hasn't been for a long time.

She's not that naïve and alone 17 year girl anymore, that got herself caught up in a situation that she had no idea how to deal with, that got involved and fell too fast into what could only be call a whirlwind—and she has learn her lesson, she _swears_. Her body and soul are a canvas marred with scars to prove the truthfulness in her words.

She's not naïve anymore; she's got ten years to learn that the world is a cruel and dark place in which you can lose yourself if you aren't careful. That this world can easily swallow you up without bothering to even chew. And that there are people in it that can break your bones and crash your soul. Her walls aren't there for no reason, after all, they're the only way she can protect what her fists are so helpless to. What's so fragile.

(Her heart. Her broken and scarred heart.)

And she's not alone, she's got Mary Margaret and David, who are like the siblings she never had, (the siblings that never wanted her, the siblings that came to replace her… those, those don't count because—because it has taken her a long time, but she's come to realize that that's not what family is about), and she's got Ruby and Graham and Tink and even her librarian Belle.

They're her family and she knows, she _knows_ she isn't alone. Not anymore.

And sometimes—sometimes she hates herself for thinking it but—but, sometimes she feels like there's something missing, a love missing. But she's got love, plenty of it, more than she ever thought she would and— and she hates it, hates that all it took was _his_ presence, _his_ smile, _his_ voice, _his_ twinkling eyes to realize what _really_ was missing.

(And it's not a grand and epic love story what she needs. What really was missing is not that. The missing puzzle piece it's simply—)

(It's him.)

* * *

They end up having pizza _and_ Chinese because turns out he is one of those weird persons that don't particularly love pizza that much and—it's not strange, she doesn't think that's the word but she can't find the right one, so—it's _strange _how much she likes him the more she learns about him, it—it doesn't matter how little it is.

They really don't know each other all that well, that _is_ the truth but—no matter, she hangs onto his every word every time he speaks. She doesn't want to—_tries_ not to. But it's so difficult to remember why she _shouldn't_ want this, why she should just _stay away_, when he is right _there_, with her, sharing and singing quietly alongside with the people on the screen because—

(Because apparently he enjoys Disney movies as much as she does.)

"What's your favorite color?"

Yes, she forgets sometimes why getting to know him is such a dangerous game. And yeah, tonight may be one of those times.

"It used to be blue. Now, though, I'm starting to have an inclination towards green." It's hard to understand why such a simple answer can make her heart rate to pick up. "What about you, love?" He asks, and he sounds so _genuinely_ interested… she—she had forgotten how nice it was having someone be interested in what you had to say, no matter how insignificant the topic may seem.

(She realizes it's not that she's forgotten, it's more like she hasn't ever had it in the first place.)

"I think I'll go with blue." She hasn't yet found a name for the exact color of his eyes, so blue seems like the way to go option.

"Yeah?"

She hums.

"What about your birthday?"

"It's this 20 questions or something?"

"No. I may have more than 20."

* * *

It turns out they have more in common than she ever thought they would.

He's right, _an orphan's and orphan_, and yeah, she has also thought there was something in his eyes because—because, _they all share the same look in their eyes, the look you get when you've been left alone_.

And her heart aches for him and the little boy whom lost his mom when he was too young to remember, the little boy who woke up one day to find his father had abandon him, the young navy lieutenant that lost his beloved brother—his hero—just when he had found him.

The young man that fell in love with the wrong woman—taken woman—and everything went up in flames. The man that ended up, somehow, in their doorstep with a broken heart and a scarred soul and—_God_, he deserved _so_ much better than what he got.

And she just wants to hold him in her arms and give him the world, show him and herself that life can be good even after so much loss and pain.

(But she can't—she won't. Because she's scare and her fear rules her life and actions more than she'd like.)

And he's such a lovely idiot even after everything that he has been through, it throws her for a loop sometimes.

(_"Why Daisy?"_)

(_"For the flower."_)

(_"You like daisies?"_)

(_"I like many flowers, specially the yellow ones." "Why the buttercup?"_)

(_"It's not. It's a forget me not." Almost like your eyes, _she'd thought. She never told him that.)

* * *

They didn't used to talk this often, didn't use to try and find excuses to touch this often. They don't really talk about what is it that they're doing, if they are just friends or if they're more. They talk and share and vent. They laugh and smile and cry together. His singing comes back randomly, too.

He's beautiful, inside and outside, it's a truth she can't deny any longer. It keeps getting harder and harder for her to remember why they can't be any more than what they already are. To remember that even what they are—or aren't—doing right now is already dangerous enough. That talking about everything with him is something, but talking about nothing is something else.

Sharing and giving so much of herself to him is becoming too easy and she finds herself doing it without realizing it. It's such a dangerous game they're playing; they're dancing too close to the fire, in danger of catching and burning up in flames.

* * *

(It's not a surprise they end up so badly injured. She's sure there's not a possibility of rating her pain from a scale of 1 to 10, just like a doctor would ask of her, because the pain is far greater than a simple number could ever explain.)

(She supposes, though, that if persuaded; she'd say, 25.)

* * *

He crept up on her. Somehow, in some way, so slowly and gradually she almost didn't realize. He had found the cracks and weak spots in her armor and climbed her walls—her already half crumbled walls—and she doesn't—she doesn't understand how he did it or why or if he even realizes at all of what he's done but—

But he's done it either way, aware or not. He's inside her heart, passed through her walls like they were made of sand. He crept up on her and she just—she let him in, so… willingly and without much fight and— she doesn't know, (she doesn't _care_.)

(Because—because he's there one way or the other and _so_ deeply carved… that if she were to tried and pull him out her heart would end up torn to shreds. There's no way of getting him out other than ripping her own heart out in the process.)

Because—_God_, she _loves_ him.

(What is she doing?)

She let herself fall too fast, too soon. She shouldn't have, this wasn't supposed to happen. They're friends, _friends_, nothing more. They can't be anything more. Because there's Milah in his heart still and her heart is such a mess, such an irreparable mess, broken and battered and he deserves better than that, so, _so _much better but—she wishes so much that her heart was enough. Her heart, her soul, her body, her past and—_God_, even her future— she would give him everything if he just asked.

But still, he deserves better than her, she can't do this to him. He deserves a whole and pure heart that will be only his, for him to hold and love.

(And if she could just fix her heart, if there was a way that hers wasn't such a mess. She would give it to him, for him to hold or to break, it wouldn't matter; all it'd matter would be that it'd be _his_.)

(It already is.)

* * *

And in retrospective, it hasn't been that long, since they've met, it's probably only been a year but—but she already _loves_ him. Loves him in a way she didn't thought she was capable of anymore. She loves him so much her heart aches when they're close, because he is there but he is not at the same time.

(So close and yet so out of reach.)

And it's not like they have a horrible relationship. It's _not_. In fact—in fact they have a great, _amazing_ relationship. _Friend_ship. They are closer than she'd thought she'd be with someone she didn't know existed before last year. They go out for lunch every freaking Wednesday and they have Friday Movie Night and sometimes, on Saturday nights, they all get together for drinks.

And they—they are great, _he_ is great and—_damn it all to hell_, she _loves_ him.

(She's so beyond screwed.)

—And they can't be.

(And she doesn't want to let it affect them but the truth is that—that it is, it's ruining them.)

* * *

That was the man she loved. A little bit messy and maybe a little bit ruined. A complete and utterly beautiful disaster.

(Just like her.)

* * *

"What is going on with you and Killian? Did you guys broke up or something?" Mary Margaret asks one day out of the blue and—damn, _are they really that obvious?_— but they are cleaning up the apartment after a little get together with David, Tink, Graham and Ruby and Killian, _of course_, but they were not—they weren't together like _that_, ever, why would Mary Margaret, or _anyone_, think that and—.

(It's a going away party. For _him_. Because he's leaving and she's _letting_ him.)

"Can't end something that never even started to begin with." And it's true, it's the truth but— if it's so then… then why does it hurt this _badly?_

She spends the rest of the evening trying with all her might to ignore the burning ache her earlier words cause her.

(She fails, _of course_. And the pain spreads through her breast bone like a sharp piece of glass is stuck in her lungs and every time she tries to breathe it slides deeper and gets closer to her heart every time and— and she's bleeding inwardly, and fast and—and sometimes she feels like she truly _can't_ breathe. But that's the thing, isn't it? That she _can_, and she's alive but not really and it sucks.)

* * *

**2\. I'll Use You As A Makeshift ****Gauge**

* * *

_Of how much to give, and how much to take_

* * *

Killian remembers quite vividly the first time he walked into the apartment. He had heard them, _of course_ he did; his hearing sense was impossibly sharp. Emma's weariness had been amusing to him, _a psychopathic serial killer; _it had almost made him laugh, if he hadn't been such wreck he may have had.

He had stand there for minutes, too nervous to knock, too polite to actually eavesdrop intentionally—though he did heard regardless—he didn't _want_ to but he didn't covered his ears either, and so he had listened into their conversation, it wasn't until Mary Margaret had mention his past relationship that he had decided it was time to interrupt; he didn't want them discussing such private matters: Matters that didn't concern them in the least.

But then—then there was _her_.

_Emma. Emma Swan._

And it's like—like the world recovered its sense, like there was color again, and—and all he could see was green, those beautiful jade eyes of hers and her fair hair. All there is in his world it's the smile she gives him after she says his name, _"Jones."_

(He doesn't intent to, but he—he can't help himself. He _likes_ her so.)

* * *

He doesn't intent to, he _swears. _He doesn't even think his heart is even capable of having anyone else in it because—because Milah was all there was for _years_ and that was only a few months ago and— and he still hurts over it, he doesn't think he'll ever stop but… but it's not as bad anymore because now—

Now there's _Emma_. Emma Swan and her gorgeous eyes and breathtaking smile, her brilliance and stubbornness, her sarcastic jokes, sharp wit and her thrilling tales.

There's her and her understanding of him. Of all that he _is_, of all that he _was_.

And—_God_, who would've thought they'd have so much in common?

(Because she is as much of a Lost Girl as he is a Lost Boy and never before had he felt so connected with someone in his life.)

(His heart aches for her every time, and everything she has had to go through and, man, if he could only go back in time and change it, if he could take her pain away, give her a better childhood, punch that fucking moron—_Neal_—in the face, for everything he did to her, for everything he _didn't_ do for her. If he could just kiss it and make it better like a child's boo-boo, he would. He'd do it a thousand times over. Always.)

* * *

Getting to know the person Emma is… is one of the most wonderful things that has ever happened to him because she—

She has given him so much of herself without him even asking and she— he has found himself giving her as much of himself.

They're—they're _friends_ and he… he is okay with that. Really, he doesn't need more, (not needing it doesn't stop him from wanting it, though), won't ask more of her—(he doesn't think he is ready for more.)

(Not yet.)

He would be lying if he says that lunch with her wasn't the best part of his Wednesday, or that the reason he always looks forward to Friday so much _isn't_ because of their (quickly growing tradition) movie marathon. They would be lies. Because—

Because he loves spending time with her, having take out and talking about everything and nothing at the same time. It's the best part of his week, when she casually shares a piece of her with him, when they are having lunch and every time she arrives there's cocoa _with cinnamon_ waiting for her and she—

She smiles so softly at him because—

Because, '_you remembered?'_

And, '_of course, love,'_ how could he not? If is all he can think about these days; her.

And he can tell that it makes her happy, and all he ever wants it's to make her happy because—because when Emma Swan is happy she _glows_ and there's nothing ever in this world more beautiful that her in that moment. When she smiles _so_ softly and her eyes wrinkle with happiness and untold affection is—

Is the best, most precious thing he has ever seen. And he never wants her to stop smiling like that.

(And, _oh_, he _likes_ her so.)

* * *

When they touch—when _she_ touches _him_, (just a brush of the fingers, accidental, non-intentional, innocent, _beautiful_.) oh, she lights him on fire, no matter where their skin makes contact, when her fingers touch his skin is like—like a burn, it just doesn't show.

(No matter, it's still hard to breathe.)

(It's like there's ash in his lungs. He is suffocating daily.)

* * *

It has started to hurt. Watching her. She _shines_, she's brighter than the sun itself. She's so beautiful—_too _beautiful for his eyes.

It's so hard to look at her, but it's even harder to look away. He's going blind. She's like an addiction.

His ears are in tune with her voice, they turn every time she speak, out in their own accord. He swears he could pick her out of a sea of thousands. Her voice is _beautiful_ and he's addicted to it, she has started to make pretty singers with their pretty songs sound dull, everything else that is not _her_ sounds ugly.

And the color of her eyes— his favorite color in the world.

As green as the color of the sea.

(She has turned him into a cliché love-wrecked fool.)

(He's drowning in the sea of her eyes.)

(Always sinking.)

* * *

He knows her and he—

He realizes, he _loves_ her.

Through a thousand lifetimes and across million of stars, he's sure he would find her and—if she would only allow him—he'd never leave her.

He _loves_ her.

If he were to live a thousand years, he'd belong to her for all of them, if he were to live a thousand lives, he'd want to make her his in each one.

(He wishes she would only _let_ him. let him in her heart.)

(But he doesn't blame her.)

Because—because if anyone deserves the world is Emma Swan. She deserves _so_ much better than what she's got and he—he wishes he could give it to her. The world and the moon, the sky and the stars and everything that she could ever want.

Because Emma Swan is the most wonderful woman he has ever met, the woman that healed his heart and soul with only her touch, with only a smile. And her heart is pure and _strong_, because no matter how broken she once was, she is now so whole and beautiful and she—she _shines_ in his eyes.

She is everything there is. His eyes don't (can't) see anything else.

(He wishes his heart was enough. His blood and his soul. His body and his mind. His past and his future. Everything.)

(Everything is hers. Always.)

* * *

And he doesn't want to let it wreck them. He is trying everything, for her, _only_ her, for her own good. Not letting his emotions show and he—he thinks he is succeeding.

He _thinks_.

(He's wrong.)

It's ruining them. Slowly and surely and it hurts. It fucking _hurts_, more than anything. It's the roughest pain he has endured in a long time. It feels like a loss but of _what_ he doesn't know because—because they're still friends, _right?_

(Not really.)

He doesn't know because—because they're not speaking about it. He can _feel_ them drifting apart and it's wrecking him. He doesn't want to lose her, _God_, please _no_, but—

He doesn't know what he's done wrong, all he's ever done has been for her and he—he feels that this is more about _her_ than _him_ but it—it still affects him, that, she feels the need to pull away instead of just… just talking to him like they always do. Like they always _used_ to.

It—it has become unbearable, being close to her but not really, (he wants her close, always close—closer.) She seems so distant and unattached to them it's like—it's like they're back to square one. No friends, no… _more_.

When he suggests it one night, he—he doesn't really mean it, he's just looking for a reaction, for—something.

(_"Maybe… maybe I should—I should move out. Overstayed my welcome and all."_He'd said and she—she hadn't even looked at him. Stayed silent for so long he had thought she hadn't heard him at all except—except, well, there was no noise, the TV was at its lowest, it was around midnight after all and Mary Margaret had work the next day—but then, then she had given him a slight nod, almost imperceptible and… and that had been it.)

(He hadn't been sure if the nod was more for her than him.)

(He moved out three weeks later anyway.)

The worst part of moving out was that she hadn't been there to say goodbye. He doesn't blame her; neither of them are any good at goodbyes either way.

(He still wishes she had at least made the effort.)

* * *

And they don't agree on it; don't even speak of it, really. (They don't speak of much these days, if even at all.) But—but on Wednesday she isn't there for their weekly lunch. Neither is she the next.

Or the next after that. He stops going to that diner altogether after week number 5.

* * *

It's month number two since he last saw her and he—he should have seen it coming, he—he did _hoped_ but—

Hoping it's different than having it happen and—and he is a wreck and his thoughts are a jumbled mess and he can't quite breathe correctly.

(What—what _is_ happening?)

(She's—she's _there_. Right _there_ in the table right across the stage and he—)

The guys had invited him to the bar for a drink and one turned into four and then someone said something about it being Karaoke Night and—(_C'mon, Killian, sing for us, Killian! Killian!_) and he was on his way to drunkenness and a song seemed so harmless, and he likes Bon Jovi and the song relates so much to his current situation and—

And she's right there and he can't _think_.

The Swan Girl.

The words are slipping from his mouth without him realizing, her eyes fall on his the moment the first chorus breaks.

_"__Trate y trate de negar este amor tantas veces, baby / Si mis lagrimas fueron en vano / Si al final __yo te ame demasiado /Como yo, como yo nadie te ha amado."_

_God_, he _loves_ her, loves her more than he ever thought he could, loves her more than the air he breaths, loves her more than life because she _is_ the air and she _is_ his life and—

He _loves_ her. Completely and utterly and he needs her. Needs her to see it. See it in his eyes, see it in his words, and see it in his song. Because every word he's singing it's _true _because—because no matter how many men have loved her before—and he's sure there are many because how could someone _not_ love her? She's so precious, _so_— it doesn't matter, no one has ever loved her quite the way _he_ loves her.

His love for her is _true_ and—and _always_.

_"__Esta vez la pasión ha ganado / Y por eso sigo esperando."_

He's still waiting for her, always waiting, will forever wait for her, _only_ her.

Because he knows, _knows_, feels it in and with every fiber of his being that he could love her for always, _always and forever_. The rest of his life because even though it has taken him a lifetime to find her and even longer to admit all that she _is_ and all that she _means_, it—it only took him a moment—_this _moment to realize he will love her for the rest of his life.

And he's not sure how fairytales are supposed to work or if he even believes in them or if they are even cut out for such things but—he doesn't _care_. He knows he could give her a happy life, her happy ending, like the one she deserves, like the one she should've always had. He can work on it; they can work on it, _together_.

_"__Lloré y lloré y juré que no iba a perderte / Traté y traté de negar este amor tantas veces / Si mis lagrimas fueron en vano / Si al final yo te amé demasiado."_

He knows he's in no way Prince Charming and she's certainly no Cinderella but he's sure they could make it work, they could, they _can._ Because—because he _loves_ her and while love may not always be enough sometimes, in other situations, with other people, he's sure, it'll be _now_. Because it's _them_ and—and he has never loved anyone or anything the way he admires and loves Emma Swan. Because Emma Swan is a brilliant, brave and kind woman despite all of her hardships and they—they understand each other like no one ever has before and—

_"__Como yo, como yo, nadie te ha amado."_

And they may be just another Lost Girl and Lost Boy but— but they can be lost together and… and maybe find their way, too, _together_.

* * *

He sees the moment it dawns in her mind, and the moment the knee jerk instinct of flight or fight kicks in.

He has barely sang the last verse when she literally flies away from her chair, causing it to fall, she only looks back on it momentarily but doesn't go back to pick it up. She just _runs_.

And he just—_fuck it_.

He runs like hell after her.

* * *

And she hadn't really made it farther than the parking lot.

(She knew he was after her.)

(She waited for him to catch up and—)

(_"You stopped showing up to our weekly lunch."_)

(But—)

(_"I did show up. Every single time, actually. You just never saw me. _You_ stopped going after week 5, though."_)

* * *

And—

(And it turns out that she _loves_ him, too.)

* * *

And when she kisses him to shut him up it's like—

Like everything he has ever dreamed of but—_no_, it was _more_. So, _so_ much more.

She tastes sweet; she's the most delicious thing he has ever tasted.

(He doesn't want to ever stop kissing her.)

(She doesn't want him to either.)

Her wet and sloppy kisses are the best thing that has ever happened to the world and if the salty tears are his or hers—he doesn't care because they're happy tears.

(_Finally_.)

And her smiles shine brighter than a thousand suns and he swears he would go to the ends of the earth or time for her, to put that smile on her face every day, all day.

(When she pulls him down to her once more and her hands tangle in his hair he—he swears that the way she pulls at it and then sighs _oh_ so breathlessly—)

(It's his favorite fucking thing ever.)

* * *

At the end it's not as hard as he thought it would be, to find a home.

When he was just a little boy looking for his father day in and night out, until the day he finally understood that you can't find someone that doesn't want to be found. Or when he was lost in the abysm of pain that was losing his beloved brother—his hero—right after finding him.

Or when the Navy disposed of him leaving him without the only home he had ever known, that held the precious and few moments he spend with his brother.

It's not as hard as he thought it would be, all those years ago, no, not at all. Because he's already found a home, the day he met Emma Swan.

(He also loves the idea of being her home, too.)

(Nothing feels better than being lost and then found.)

_Fin._

* * *

_I found love where it wasn't supposed to be,_

_Right in front of me,_

_Talk some sense to me,_

* * *

**Soundtrack; I Found by Amber Run,**

**Every Time We Touch by Cascada,**

**Love Me Like You Do by Ellie Goulding,**

**By Your Side by Sade,**

**Como Yo Nadie Te Ha Amado by Bon Jovi,**

**Si No Te Hubiera Conocido by Christina Aguilera ft. ****Luis Fonsi.**


End file.
